


No Way of Knowing

by hivecaptor



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Angst, Bad Eating Habits, Comforting, Cuddling, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Joseph Kavinsky Lives, Joseph Kavinsky is His Own Warning, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Past Abuse, vent - Freeform, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29506389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hivecaptor/pseuds/hivecaptor
Summary: K’s voice was weak and a lot more defeated than he meant it to sound. All the fight had gone out of him, and he didn’t know what to do without it.“I know. Believe me.”He did. Proko was a part of him, he was half of K’s fucking soul. Kavinsky would believe anything he said.
Relationships: Joseph Kavinsky/Prokopenko
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	No Way of Knowing

There were times when Kavinsky was struck by just how much he needed Prokopenko. It was one thing for Proko to need him, he was K’s creation. Proko couldn’t exist without him. But after forcing himself to be independent for so long, relying on someone terrified K more than anything else.

Proko had come and picked him up from the front of his house at four in the morning, twenty minutes after K had sent the _i can’t fucking do this, get me now_ text. He wondered vaguely how fast Prokopenko had to have driven to get there in such a short amount of time. 

He stepped out of the car looking more scared than anything else, and Kavinsky couldn’t blame him. If he had gotten a text like that from Proko, he would have been scared shitless too.

No questions asked, he picked up K’s duffel bag and slung it into the trunk as K climbed into the passenger’s seat. All he did as they drove was put his hand on Kavinsky’s bare bicep and ran his thumb along the curve of the muscle. It was all he needed. Proko was all he needed.

Kavinsky had definitely fallen asleep at some point, because he couldn’t remember getting from his neighborhood to the gas station where Proko had parked and disappeared inside. He looked up at the sign, the bright lights burning his eyes. He wanted to scream. He wanted to hit something or burn something or yell until his lungs gave out and he could collapse on the ground, all the fight gone out of him. Instead, he was in Proko’s car, with him inside a gas station doing God knows what.

Prokopenko returned with a bag of candy and a drink that it was too dark for K to read the label of and pressed them into K’s chest. “You need to eat.” Those were the first words he had said all night. 

“Fuck you,” Kavinsky said, but still accepted the offerings, eating the candy two pieces at a time and chugging the soda. It tasted like bubblegum and burned on the way down. 

For the next half an hour, Kavinsky drifted in and out of sleep. The roads of Henrietta rolled past outside the window, and he was comforted by the fact that he knew exactly where he was at any given moment. Whether that was because of the amount of time he had spent living there or the number of times he had gone to Proko’s he didn’t know.

The next time he was fully conscious, they were parked in the long driveway. K tried to get out of the car, but Prokopenko’s hand on his knee stopped him. “Wait,” he said.

“What?”

“Breathe for me. Four times in, four times out.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Just do it.” 

Proko’s blue eyes were trained on him, and his hand hadn’t left K’s knee. He watched Kavinsky’s chest rise and fall, and the tension slowly left his shoulders. 

“Okay, come on,” he said after K had done the stupid fucking breath exercises. The door closed behind him with a dull thunk, and K followed. He was too tired to speak, too tired to argue with anything else. He was so fucking _tired_. 

Tired and angry. Angry at the way Proko cared for him, angry at the way he carried Kavinsky’s bag all the way up the stairs and to his own room. K couldn’t make himself do anything but follow and listen to the scuff of his dreamed up sneakers on Proko’s clean floors.

Proko’s room wasn’t like Skov’s, with all its crystals and incense and all that other hippie bullshit he liked. It was simple, and took no effort to be comforting. Anywhere with Proko felt like home, his real home. The room was so clearly _his_ , and once K had collapsed onto the bed, he didn’t feel like he’d ever be able to get up again.Prokopenko pulled one of his ragged sweatshirts out of a drawer and gave it to K who pulled it over his head. 

He felt disgusting. He knew how he looked: bags under his eyes, so ragged and tired. Stubble growing out a little too much. He hadn’t reshaved his sides in weeks. The only piece of clothing on him that was clean was Proko’s hoodie, and it smelled like his fabric softener. There were new bruises on his chin and nose. He looked like shit. Proko shouldn’t want him, Proko shouldn’t be handing him a glass of water and a tums, he shouldn’t be giving him anything. Kavinsky didn’t deserve Proko. 

Still, when Proko settled down beside him and pulled K to his chest, he just started bawling.

Prokopenko didn’t say a word. He just hugged K tighter and let him cry, hand stroking his matted hair. He knew Prokopenko would make him wash it tomorrow but he didn’t care, he just held Proko tighter and let every fucking thing out for the first time in God knows how long.

“I hate her so fucking much, I couldn’t stay there, I couldn’t I’m sorry-” 

Nothing else would come out. He couldn’t breathe again.

“Shh, I know.”

“I want to fucking kill her.”

K’s voice was weak and a lot more defeated than he meant it to sound. All the fight had gone out of him, and he didn’t know what to do without it. 

“I know. Believe me.”

He did. Proko was a part of him, he was half of K’s fucking soul. Kavinsky would believe anything he said.

“Go to sleep, Joey.”

For once, Kavinsky had been given a command he didn’t want to fight. He was so tired of fighting.

_So I follow you down your twisting alleyways,_

_Find a few cul-de-sacs of my own._

_There’s only one place this road ever ends up_

_And I don’t want to die alone._

**Author's Note:**

> Title and quote from 'Dance Music' by The Mountain Goats.
> 
> Thank you so much to @prokopenkokavinsky on tumblr for beta reading this, and I hope you all enjoyed it!


End file.
